


The Fall

by Lieutenant_Romanoff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Holmes Brothers feels, M/M, Mycroft cares, Reichenbach Feels, because we're still not over it, he's just as ignorant as john, mycroft isn't involved in the fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4283445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lieutenant_Romanoff/pseuds/Lieutenant_Romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock jumps and John and Mycroft suffer. Just a short little drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I recently rewatched series 2 and remembered all my Reichenbach feels so have a quick drabble about it

John Watson had never known true pain until that moment. There were many times when he'd been in pain and perhaps it had seemed like the worst pain at the time but nothing compared to this. Not being punched repeatedly by the bullies in his school, not tumbling from the first floor balcony when he was drunk, not even being blown up in Afghanistan. Nothing at all could compare to the immense agony that rocketed through him as he helplessly watched Sherlock plummet to the ground in front of him. Wonderful, brilliant Sherlock who had saved John from what would've inevitably been a life of loneliness and boredom. Intelligent, observant Sherlock who could deduce your whole life story with one look. Beautiful, caring Sherlock who had opened up to John like no-one else and who had spent many a night curled up with his head resting on John's shoulder.

"Goodbye John." That had been the last thing he'd said. Nothing else, and then he'd jumped. Just leaned off the building like he was falling into a massive swimming pool. But there was no pool, there was nothing but the air and then the cold pavement below.

John shook himself out of his horrific thoughts and pulled himself into the equally painful reality that lay before him. He began to stumble towards where Sherlock's body lay unmoving.

"Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead, Sherlock." He chanted in his head as he made his way across the street. Out of nowhere a cyclist crashed into John, sending him to the floor, his face smashing on the pavement. He barely noticed the stinging pain it left, it was nothing compared to the crushing pain in his chest as his mind cruelly replayed Sherlock's jump over and over; driving him insane. He stood himself back up and continued towards Sherlock, heart pounding. By the time John reached him there was a large crowd surrounding the fallen detective.

"Let me through! I'm his friend!" John cried out to the mass of people. Some looked at him, others didn't but none moved aside.

"I'm a doctor, just let me through! Please!" He choked out and a few people moved out of his way, allowing him to fully assess Sherlock's body. When he saw the extent of his injuries however, a part of him wished he had never been let through. Dark streams of blood ran down Sherlock's handsome face, dripping into a wide pool of blood on the ground.

"Oh god." John had spent a long time as a doctor, assessing a range of injuries and deciding whether or not thr patient would live. However, John didn't need to use a lot of skill to tell what the prognosis for Sherlock would be. He felt for Sherlock's hand, clasping it in his own and desperately searched his wrist for a pulse. What greeted him was a mocking stillness and John couldn't help but choke out a small "No."

The medics turned up a matter of seconds later and loaded him onto a stretcher. People around were trying to talk to John, console him, ask how he knew Sherlock but he ignored them. After all what did it matter? What did anything matter now he was gone? How would he go on living knowing the man who had saved him would soon be laying in a wooden coffin beneath his feet. John put his head in his hands but no tears came. Instead he just sat there, thoughts of his lost friend running circles around his head, each new lap bringing a new wave of pain. One word echoed through his brain continuously. A quiet, desperate word.

"Please."

***

Meanwhile, Mycroft Holmes sat in his deep burgundy armchair in his home and stared out of the window at suburban London. To any passer-by who saw him, they wouldn't think anything was going on inside his head for he looked out blankly upon the world. But in reality, the man's head was a whir of activity, thoughts dashing through his brain. The subject of his thoughts was clear- Sherlock, and Moriarty of course. What was happening now? Would Moriarty be caught? Was he wrong to spill out every detail about his brother? The last question continued to relentlessly force itself to the front of his brain and no matter how many times he pushed it away, it continuously returned.

Maybe it was wrong of him to betray his brother like that. The bitter rivalry between the two siblings was no reason to divulge everything about Sherlock to a man who was completely insane. Because there was no doubt about it, James Moriarty was undeniably mad. Mad, but terribly clever. Clever enough to make Mycroft turn against his own flesh and blood. But then again, when Moriarty posed a threat to the whole of British security, how could Mycroft have refused him the information he desired?

Besides, Sherlock wasn't stupid. He was just as smart as Moriarty, smart enough to beat the consulting criminal at his own game. By the time the day was over he was sure Moriarty would either be captured or laying dead on the ground and Sherlock would be fine. Perhaps he'd be slightly scarred by the whole event and when John inevitably told the detective what his brother had done he would never trust him again. But nevertheless, he'd be safe. Not that Mycroft was concerned for his brother. It was sentiment. Sentiment didn't save lives. What was the point in it?

The clearing of a throat from behind him snapped him out of his troubling thoughts and he turned to find Anthea standing there.

"Sir I have some news about Moriarty." She announced and Mycroft tried to desperately cling to his calm exterior.

"What about him?" He asked smoothly, his voice giving away no hint of the desperation in his mind.

"He's dead, sir. Found him on a roof. We think he was shot in the mouth, Molly Hooper's doing an autopsy as we speak."

Mycroft let out an inaudible sigh of relief. It didn't matter. Him telling Moriarty didn't matter. Sherlock was safe. Everything had gone as planned. He couldn't believe he'd questioned his brother for a-

"There's something else you should know, sir. About your brother, Sherlock Holmes." Anthea cut through his thoughts.

"What about him?" Mycroft asked nonchantly. Nothing mattered anymore, Sherlock was probably angry at him. He was probably standing right outside waiting to burst in and shout at Mycroft. At least he wouldn't be wearing just a sheet this ti-

"He's dead, sir."

A sharp pain shot through Mycroft's chest and he struggled to keep a straight face as he dismissed Anthea swiftly from the room. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and returned to his position facing the window. He took a deep, shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. A feeling squirmed around in the depths of his stomach, a feeling he had kept covered up for years, a feeling he thought he was no longer capable of. But there it was, undeniably rising to the surface after years of dormancy. Sentiment.


End file.
